Love & Sex

My First Time: Female, 18, Washington D.C.

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Female • 18 • Washington D.C.

I was eighteen, and senior year of high school was fast coming to an end. I'd had my issues (an eating disorder bringing me under ninety pounds at five-foot-six) during high school, and they were probably far more obvious to everyone than I was willing to admit. I'm sure this was a big factor into my utter lack of experience up to this point, and combined with my shyness, low self-esteem, and identity as "the smart one," it led to the fact that I had never even been kissed.

He took off my shirt before the front door had closed and we stumbled backwards to my room.

By senior year, I was getting over my social fears. I was more talkative and more confident. I'd found some friends who were accepting and liberal, and I'd had some nights that registered as "daring" in my mind — i.e., I drank in a basement with some friends. You can imagine how innocent I was if that was daring. I was too wrapped up in my own issues and getting into a good college to know what was going on around me, and I remember feeling shocked when I realized how many people I knew had had sex. I'd also always been interested in sex, despite or perhaps because of my lack of experience (I masturbated a lot), but I'd thought I was alone in that.

One of the friends I'd been drinking in basements with was a guy I'd known for a few years and had a huge crush on. He was clearly experienced, and was outdoorsy and bold and physical. I could never tell if he was flirting or being friendly-touchy, but we tended to cuddle and have flirty arguments. He was in and out of relationship for most of our time in high school, but at the end of senior year, he was out for good. On our senior trip, I remember boldly (for me, at least) laying my head on his stomach while we all sat around the campfire, and him shifting to help me, covering my hands with his. I was confused but thrilled. After the fire, we went stargazing with a few friends and lay on blankets in the field. We were spooning — all four of us — but he had pulled me strongly to him and was stroking my ribs, my stomach bared by my shirt, which had ridden up. I was wet and shivered happily at his touch, but he was a flirt, touchy with everyone. I was hoping he'd kiss me when we walked back to our rooms, but he didn't, and I figured it was all in my head.

But after we got back from the trip, he came to hang out one morning and, being a straightforward guy, told me he had a crush on me and thought it was mutual. I felt like a deer in headlights. He continued, saying that he didn't think I was the sort of person who would be into just hooking up, but since it was only two months until college, that was all he could offer.

This was my chance to rid myself of my goody-goody reputation, and get some experience before college. I was okay with it, I said, though my body was still frozen and my insides quaking with shock. We kept chatting for a bit, me nestled into his chest, before he swooped down and covered my mouth with his. We moved to the couch and he pushed the top of my dress down and unhooked my bra. I'd never imagined that it would progress so fast, and I don't remember his kneading of my breasts as all that pleasant.

Over the next two weeks, we moved fast. I was really into him and, realizing how fast it was going, made up my mind that I would have sex with him. I wanted to get it over before college. I assumed he knew I was a virgin because it seemed so obvious (to me), and I trusted he knew what he was getting into. And he was bold in general about life, so I assumed our friendship would survive. 

The next time, I went to his house and he took off my shirt and bra, grinding against the crotch of my shorts and gasping as he ran his hands over me. I was both turned on and frightened (I could hear his mom walking down the hall), but trying desperately to cover it. He unbuttoned my shorts and fingered me, but I think I asked him to stop, and we just touched each other over our clothes.

A week later, he came to my house and I knew as he walked in that this was the day. He took off my shirt before the front door had closed and we stumbled backwards to my room shedding clothes. I remember thinking it strange that it was broad daylight and we were on my girlish quilt.

He asked me to suck him and I did. Then, I made sure he had a condom on, and he pushed into me. I was terrified, and I'm sure it showed. I still wanted it, but I'd hoped for more gentleness on his part. It hurt, and I whimpered, trying to hide it. He stopped, telling me he didn't want to hear me in pain. Neither of us came, but I was no longer a virgin, which was my goal. To my confusion, he seemed surprised to notice the blood on my thighs. Clearly my virginity hadn't been as obvious as I'd thought. Oops. He must have felt as though he'd fucked a white lamb.

We didn't speak after that. He ignored me, which hurt, though I understood how he felt. Knowing him, I was surprised that he didn't just tell me straight that he felt too weird for this to continue. But I didn't expect much more than that, and that was freeing. His attentions boosted my self-confidence, so I felt able to experiment, which made me bold enough to go after what I wanted and become (actually) knowledgeable. Coming into college with that boost of knowing I was desirable helped me to reinvent myself as the me that had been hiding all along. I'm afraid of telling anyone that I went from first kiss to first fuck in little over two weeks — it's embarrassing — but it's worked out for me, so I have no regrets.